


Perfect From Far Away

by Malapropian



Series: Because it is my heart [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Manipulation, Mating Bond, Mating under duress, Memory Alteration, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating subject to change, Relationship under duress, Revenge, Tags Subject to Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22742686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: Now that Peter's revenge is almost complete, it's time to focus on his little pack of two. It wouldn't do to let Stiles enjoy too much normalcy.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Because it is my heart [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/386155
Comments: 8
Kudos: 89
Collections: The Steter Network





	Perfect From Far Away

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I'm necro-ing this series after four years. Cool. 
> 
> I do have a plan for this fic. I've had a plan (and had this written) for um... four years. So you can see how well it's going. :p But it's International Fanworks Day, so I thought I'd post something.
> 
> Title is from Such Great Heights by The Postal Service because I enjoy irony.

Peter sprawls in a kitchen chair, at the opposite end of the table. He’s seated himself as a rival king, and the placement isn’t lost on John. Indeed, the Sheriff glares at Peter, his face locked in a rictus of hate. The utter loathing rolling off of the man is palpable. It seems that his new “father-in-law” isn’t having nearly as much fun as he is. 

Peter sips at the grudgingly offered water and chooses his expression with meticulous care. He represses a smile, but leaves a hint of mobility at the corners of his mouth—just enough of a twitch to let John know that Peter’s _chosen_ this neutral face. He can be generous in his triumph. The unsubtle flare of John’s nostrils serves as a suitable reward to his careful gloating.

“Now I’ll be living here from now on, but I understand that this will be a period of transition for all of us. I’m not the bad guy here, John.”

“You could have fooled me.”

In a quick, casual move, Peter flicks out his claws, admiring their sheen. “I’m sure I can persuade you and Stiles differently. Isn’t that right?” 

Sullen and fuming, John shuts up again. Good. It’s best he learns early who’s in charge. Peter continues smoothly, “I do have all the red tape at the hospital before I can stage my official return to society, so my presence will go unnoticed by the neighborhood. At least until we deal with the Argents, as discussed. It should be easy now that I’ve done all the investigating for you.” 

Behind his teeth, John barely muffles a protest. He sounds like a kettle about to boil over. Peter chooses to ignore it for now; after all, mercy is a gift of the strong, and Peter has strength to spare. 

It takes a few tries before John manages to say, “Yeah. We wouldn’t have all of this evidence without you.”

“It was my duty to help the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department apprehend such a dangerous criminal.” Peter beams across the table. “And just think! Soon you’ll be able to properly welcome me into your household as the bonded mate of your only child. Why I’ll practically be another son, John. Won’t that be a day?”

“Oh, it’ll be something all right,” John grits out. The dull clack of John grinding his teeth is perfectly audible to werewolf ears. Perhaps Peter will tell him once it stops putting a spring is his step or a song is his heart.

“Excellent!” Peter steps to the sink and washes his glass out. He turns it over and places it in the dish rack as the lone occupant. There’s no need to be a messy housemate, and he likes to begin as he means to go. “Have a good night, John. I’ll see myself to bed.”

If John had been in any danger of developing sudden laser eyes, then Peter would have died many times over on his way up the stairs—back to Stiles’ room. Once there, the only sounds are the quiet click of the door latching and Stiles’ easy breathing and beating heart. If Peter listens closely, if he presses his ear to Stiles’ chest, then he’ll be able to hear the blood rushing through his veins the way shells carry the memory of the ocean in their hollow caverns. 

“You were not what I expected at all,” Peter confides to the still body on the bed. “I must admit that I might have preferred Melissa, but beggars can’t be choosers… and there is something _interesting_ about you. The bond is much more potent than I had anticipated. It’s almost enough to make me forget my priorities.” He reaches forward and pats the lump of a foot under the covers. “As much as I’d enjoy celebrating my victory, I’d rather have you conscious.” His eyes touch on the moonlight falling across the bed, and he sighs. “And I have miles to go before I sleep.” 

Peter plucks at the mental strings binding him to Stiles and nods to himself. A nudge here and a prod there, and everything is in order. Satisfied, he brushes soft kisses across Stiles’ forehead and the bruised, swollen eye, taking the wisps of pain with him as he presses lips to flesh. He saves the pink, open mouth of his darling mate for last, sucking harshly on one of the chapped lips and biting at the corners, delighting in the restless twitches and pained animal whimpers Stiles lets out, even in his sleep. At last, Peter releases Stiles’ lip, bruised and red from his attentions, and he stands. 

“Sleep well, dear boy. I’m afraid there’s no rest for the wicked.” Without a backward glance, Peter strides to the window and lets himself out.

* * *

How foolish, how arrogant does a person need to be to return to the scene of the crime? Argents never do change.  
By now, the shift from man to alpha is smooth, a seamless transition. Between one moment and the next, his flesh ripples and melts into his alpha form—the true form that’s always been waiting for him.

The hunter stands on the porch, foolishly empty-handed, unprepared for the danger.

The wolf crouches with a sub-vocal growl. Here is his enemy: so vulnerable. It would be so easy to kill her, perhaps even a mercy.

But he can’t. It’s more than a want. Peter needs Kate Argent to be brought low, to suffer. 

The wolf leaps, tackling her to the dirt. Beneath him, Kate struggles, wild-eyed and ferocious; but muscle-to-muscle, she’s no match for an alpha’s strength.

“Animal,” she hisses.

He presses in, close enough for his lips to brush her ear and whispers, “I’ve made some special arrangements. You’re going away for a _very long time_.”

“No! You can’t do this to me!”

“It’s already been done, Kate.”

His claws slip into the back of her neck, parting her skin easily. For Peter, it’s child’s play to rearrange her memories. Add here; subtract there. He’ll stir it all up, and Kate will be a very different girl—one who’s ready, willing, and able to confess to a whole host of crimes.

It’s less than she deserves, but multiple life sentences with no chance of parole sound like a good start to his revenge.

Peter’s claws slip out of her neck. He opens his eyes to survey the unconscious hunter. Her face is tense and lined in guilty slumber.

It makes his fangs itch.

“Ah well.” Peter sighs and slings her over his shoulder. “It’s a shame I can’t play, but I have miles to go and a whole ward of memories to fix.” He pats Kate’s leg. “Don’t worry your pretty, blonde head about a thing. When you wake up, you’ll be safely in custody.”

Cheerful with his night’s work, Peter jogs off to his nurse’s stolen car with Kate’s head bouncing against his back. Time to pay a little visit to his doctor… and tomorrow he’ll be a free man.

Who says there’s no justice in the world?

**Author's Note:**

> My personal life is fucked, but I'm still working on writing as I can. Let me know what you think or if you noticed any typos/missing tags/etc.


End file.
